


Crying Obsidian

by Ewoo



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Animal Death, Blood, Dream isn't doing as well as people thought, Implied/Referenced Character Death, It's Tommy what did you expect, Malnutrition, Manipulative Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Mind Games, Potatoes, Prisoner Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 19:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30127611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewoo/pseuds/Ewoo
Summary: “It seems that Sam might’ve forgotten about you, Tommy. All done for today?”Tommy’s throat hurt.He wanted to say no.To keep yelling.To spite him, or something.He wasn’t sure.So he finally did what Wilbur had always asked him to and talked less . His mind started to wander as Tommy looked down at his hands, fingers drumming against the floor, stained a glowing purple from the crying obsidian.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	Crying Obsidian

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Two Sides of the Same Coin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29846850) by [NervousBeans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousBeans/pseuds/NervousBeans). 



Time was stupid Tommy had decided, his back pressed against the wet, dripping obsidian of the box inside Pandora’s Vault. Liquid dripped down, thick and viscous; freezing cold and boiling hot all at once, splashing his fingers and dripping down his face, making them numb. A mockery of sorts from the aptly named crying obsidian. 

Here he sat. Across the room from his arch-enemy. The self-proclaimed “god” of the Dream SMP. He was grinning at Tommy. Ever since the two had been locked into the cell together, Dream had never stopped grinning. Tommy had thought it would be better without the porcelain mask he used to wear. To see  _ some _ kind of emotion on his face. It was worse, somehow to be able to see his face hold the same unnatural expression for so long. It reminded him of Wilbur. ~~(Only Dream didn’t have a father to beg death from. The only one here was Tommy)~~

Dream was always awake. Always smiling, always staring. If he slept, he did it after Tommy had fallen asleep and awoke before he opened his eyes. If he slept.

Dream had given the bigger half of the potatoes to Tommy. Sometimes he wondered why. When he was particularly bitter he thought it could be to try and get Tommy to think he owed Dream. Maybe it was a habit he’d picked up from Puffy. Dream probably didn’t think about it.  _ Tommy _ shouldn’t think about it. It wasn’t important. When he was feeling particularly foolish he imagined it was guilt.

Tommy remembered the malnutrition from Pogtopia and the constant ache in his stomach in Logsteadshire. Dream’s arms were thin enough from malnutrition and muscle atrophy to fit through the manacles on his wrists. But he never took them off. Why? 

Tommy didn’t move from his spot next to the pool of water, aside from when the frustration grew too much and he  _ had _ to move, just in case. In case Sam came back. Dream sat opposite him, on the dirty mattress Sam had dragged next to the lectern back when Tommy had first visited him. There was an unspoken divide between them, not that Tommy had any desire to go anywhere near him. The rest of the cell, towards the wall of lava, was for the cat’s broken body.

The pale creature’s chains rattled against the ground, the shackles creating echoing noises throughout the silent room. “Well,” the silver-tongued monster croaked, “It seems that Sam might’ve forgotten about you, Tommy. All done for today?”

Tommy’s throat hurt. He’d been yelling every day, from the moment he woke up, for Sam to come and release him from the cell, from being trapped with this monster. His hands nervously played with the purple liquid on the floor, thoughts wandering in every attempt to avoid any sort of discussion with the manipulative monster who sat grinning before him. He wanted to say no. To keep yelling. To spite him, or something. He wasn’t sure. 

So he finally did what Wilbur had always asked him to and  _ talked less _ . His mind started to wander as Tommy looked down at his hands, fingers drumming against the floor, stained a glowing purple from the crying obsidian. 

“What is this?

“What?”

Huh. 

There had been something there. Something had changed in Dream’s face.

“What is this?” He repeated, holding up his hands, covered in the thick purple ooze that dripped from the ceiling and sunk into the floor.

“It’s crying obsidian, Tommy.” As he talked Dream tilted his head, like some kind of curious bird, like he was mocking him. So. Nothing new there.

“I know that idiot!” The more he talked he slowly realised that this was the first time he’d initiated conversation with Dream. And then he realised that Dream probably didn't know how to handle not being in control of the conversation. Afterall, that was why he had hated L’manburg, wasn’t it? “God, you’re so stupid Dream. I’m not talking about the stupid block, am I? You are so stupid. Ooh, look at me, I’m Dream I have five million IQ and I’m going to speedrun killing puppies! Mimimimimi… I’m talking about the purple stuff, you don’t know what it is do you?”

“No.”

He spat the word, like he hated it.

Tommy kept drumming his fingers on the floor. He wasn’t quite sure what the rhythm was, or even if there was any at all, but it was something to do,  _ something _ to stop him from pacing up and down and yelling for Sam again. It felt like it would be a defeat if he did that. Like it was what Dream wanted. For Tommy to yell for someone who wasn’t there and didn’t care. Tommy kept drumming his fingers on the floor.

“It comes out of obsidian and also gets absorbed by it somehow… You reckon this is what nether portals are made out of?”

“What are you  **talking** about Tommy?”

He steamrolled ahead, contempt wasn’t anything new. “I mean you only find it on broken portals right?”

“Piglins trade it.”

“Well then where did they get it from? Dream.”

He’d learnt that from Wilbur. Making someone’s name sound like an accusation. He kept drumming his fingers on the floor.

“Do you think it would soak up blood?” He asked, watching Dream’s face with morbid fascination, pointedly not looking to where the cat’s dried blood clung to the wall. “That would be awfully convenient for you wouldn’t it? Having it soak up all the blood on your hands.”

“I don’t know.” Snapped Dream, voice cracking. “Shut up!”

Huh. 

Tommy smelled blood in the water. For the first time since being stuck in here, he smiled. He stopped tapping.

“How does it feel Dream? How does it feel to be at the mercy of the whims of someone else?”

At least he knows what Sam wants. ( _ Does he?  _ Does it matter? _ no _ )

Tommy smelled blood in the water and for the first time in months it wasn’t his own.


End file.
